


If You Love Me

by ZombieBabs



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Alcohol, Alex Does The Right Thing, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Character, Asexual Richard Strand, Background Richard Strand/Coralee, Background Richard Strand/Original Character, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Peer Pressure, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 20:29:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8815225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZombieBabs/pseuds/ZombieBabs
Summary: Richard Strand has struggled with feeling broken his entire life. He gives up on love, familial or otherwise.He’s better off alone.Or, that’s what he tells himself. Until Alex Reagan pushes her way into his life.





	

**Author's Note:**

> There are some serious issues with dubious consent (alcohol, implied drug use, and peer pressure) in this work. The worst of them can be found under part two, so if that makes you feel icky (it made me feel icky writing it), please be advised.

**I.**

He’s fourteen when he first begins to think that there must be something wrong with him. 

Richie Strand, a tall, gangly thing--at least a head taller than the rest of his classmates--likes to ride bikes with his friends, likes to play outside when the weather is good, likes to immerse himself in a good book when the weather is not.

But Richie Strand doesn’t like girls. Not like the other boys.

His friends have begun to notice the girls in their classes. They’ve begun to talk about them, sitting on the bank of the Red Bank Creek, without the annoying presence of the younger boys from their neighborhood.

“Mary’s real pretty,” Robbie says. He’s got his denims rolled up almost to his knees, to keep them dry as he lazily chases tadpoles through shallow water.

“You got a crush?” Peter teases. The other boys laugh and making woo-ing noises.

“Shut up.” Robbie kicks water at them, but it’s a half-hearted attempt and they’re too far up the bank for it to reach. “You’re one to talk, Pete. Everyone knows you have a big ol’ crush on Susie.” 

“The biggest,” Wayne says. He looks at Richie with a conspiratorial smile. Richie laughs and continues to draw random shapes in the sand with a twig. 

“I asked her out to the Spring Fling, so what? Doesn’t mean I’m in love or nothin’.”

“Doesn’t mean you aren’t dyin’ to kiss her, neither.” Robbie says. He’s given up on the tadpoles, instead becoming more focused on teasing Peter.

Peter gives them the textbook definition of what Wayne’s father would call a ‘shit-eating grin.’ Richie’s own father doesn’t approve of foul language, so he refrains from mentioning it. It doesn’t stop him from thinking it, however.

“Hey, you’ve been real quiet, Richie. More than usual. Don’t tell me you like Mary, too.” Robbie’s tone is light, uncaring, but it’s a practiced nonchalance. His heavy brows are drawn down in concern. Richie knows that the other boy is worried that they’ll both have to back off, if they like the same girl. That’s just how friendship works.

Wayne looks at Richie, ready to step in on the other’s behalf. He’s always been there for Richie, has always been ready to make the other kids back down, when anyone dares tease him about his strange family. If Richie has to pick a best friend, it would be Wayne, no question.

Richie shakes his head, both to Wayne’s unspoken question and Robbie’s spoken one.

The tension in Robbie’s shoulders drops, an instant weight lifted. “Oh, good. I’m going to ask her to go with me to the dance, then.”

“Good,” Wayne says, mimicking Robbie’s relieved tone exactly. “While you and Petie are shoving your tongues down your girlfriend’s throats, Richie told me his dad brought home something really neat from China. We’re going to sneak into his study to see it.”

Robbie sits down next to Wayne with a huff. “How come you’re the only one allowed at Richie’s place?”

“Yeah,” Peter says. He tosses a handful of sand at Richie’s sneaker. “We never get invited to look at all the creepy stuff your dad finds.”

Richie flinches at the word ‘creepy,’ but takes care not to show it.

“Hey, it’s not Richie’s fault. Your parents are the ones who--” Wayne stops himself, his expression anxious when he looks back at Richie. 

In truth, it is not not his fault--or that of his own parents. Peter’s family never fail to cross themselves in the Strand family’s presence. Peter’s mother calls them devil-worshippers and his father calls them names far worse. Robbie’s parents are quieter, more subtle, about their disapproval. They haven’t forbid Robbie from being friends with Richie, but they expressly refuse to let him step foot inside the Strand house.

Richie looks up at the sky. The sun is a bright orange ball kissing the tops of the trees on the other side of the river. “It’s going to be dinnertime soon.”

The other boys grumble, but take that as their cue to get back on their bikes and head for home, before they find themselves in trouble. Wayne is the last boy to wave as he turns down his own street, leaving Richie to ride the rest of the way home by himself.

He thinks back to the conversation on the river bank. He thinks about the question he had so gratefully dodged.

Mary is pretty, he thinks. In a way. She has mousy brown hair and big, green eyes. She’s nice to him, during class and out of it. She’s never once spoken unkind words about his family.

But does he like her?

Not any more than he likes Peter or Robbie. Or any of his other classmates.

He tries to imagine kissing her and nearly skids out on his bike. The reaction is instant, a wrenching feeling in the pit of his stomach--almost the same feeling he gets whenever he lies, but stronger, as if the lie were simply that much bigger. He thinks about about holding her hand. The reaction is much less violent, but nevertheless, it’s there.

He starts pedalling his bike again, picking up speed until he’s practically flying up the long drive to his house. 

He’s probably just feeling guilty about thinking about Mary like that, when his friend has already proclaimed his interest. Richie scolds himself for being such a bad friend and goes up to wash for dinner.

 

He’s unable to escape the watchful eye of his mother, all through dinner. He pushes his green beans around his plate--not because he doesn’t like them, he’s always been good about eating his vegetables--but because he can’t stop thinking.

“What’s the matter, Richard?” his mother asks. “You’ve barely eaten anything.”

“Probably just thinking about _girls_ ,” Cheryl teases. “There’s a dance coming up and I bet he’s trying to figure out which one to ask to go with him.”

Richie’s mother smiles. “Is that so?”

Richie shakes his head. “I’m not going.”

His mother’s smile falls. “No?”

“No,” he says. And then, before Cheryl can tease him further or his mother can ask any more questions, he continues. “May I be excused? I have a paper due tomorrow and I’d like to look it over.”

His mother watches him for a long time, as if she can see right through him. His father would chide him for believing such a ridiculous notion, so he weathers her stare until she nods, freeing him from the table.

He murmurs his thanks and practically runs upstairs to his room. He doesn’t slam the door, but clicks it softly shut, ever-careful of his mother’s easily frayed nerves. He lays down on his bed, pulling a pillow over his face.

It’s not enough that his friends have started to think about girls, but his family seems to believe he should be thinking about them as well. But he hasn’t thought about them. Except in the context of his apparent disinterest in them, perhaps even _dislike_ of them, as evidenced by his earlier reaction to the simple thought of kissing one.

Richie groans and turns on his side, hugging the pillow to him. There must be something wrong with him. 

He makes a mental promise never to tell anyone, lest he add one more reason for people to whisper about his family--the Strange Strands Up On The Hill. He could never forgive himself if he made his mother sick with worry. Or live with himself if he caused her to look at him with disappointment, if she knew her youngest son to be broken. 

**II.**

Richard self destructs on the anniversary of his mother’s death.

If she were alive, Richard imagines that she would be disappointed in him. She wouldn’t need words to tell him how much he has failed her, how much _more_ she expects of him. She would look at him, her features crumpled, and shake her head. Just that one look would be all that it would take.

He had always done everything in his power to keep that expression off of her face. He’d kept up his grades, done all of his chores. He had always done his best, but she’s dead now and none of it matters.

What matters is the room that’s spinning around him and the woman hanging on his arm.

“What’s the matter, Rich?” Sarah smiles up at him. She wobbles on too-high heels, unsteady after several shots of vodka. “I thought we were having fun.”

Richard shakes his head. Sarah laughs and pulls at his arm. It’s only when he’s fully upright that he realizes that he must have lost his balance. He glares down at his shoes, but he doesn’t have the excuse of platform heels.

Sarah laughs again. She hasn’t let go of him since they left the party. “I’ve never seen you this drunk. Are you sure you didn’t take anything else?”

He could have. He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t want to remember. If he’d wanted to remember, he wouldn’t have gone to the party with Sarah, in the first place.

Richard doesn’t answer. Sarah plucks at his sleeve at the crook of his elbow. When she looks up at him, still inches shorter than him, even with the added height of her shoes, there is something dark and hungry in her eyes. Richard knows that she had never really cared for his response.

He realizes, belatedly, that she’s pulling him toward her bedroom.

He stops. He can feel panic rising to the surface, from somewhere deep within him. It’s fuzzy, the edges of it dulled after so much alcohol.

“Come on, baby. What are you so afraid of?”

He shakes his head again, unable--no, unwilling--to explain.

She reaches up to place her hands on his face, boxing him in. Her skin is alcohol-warm and strangely soft against his stubble. “You’ve been a perfect gentleman, but now I want to make you feel good. Don’t you want that?”

He does. He does want to feel good. He’s tired of the grief, the anger at his father for abandoning their family when they needed him most, tired of feeling broken. He wants someone to take it away from him. He’s certainly failed at coping with it all himself, if his current state of inebriation is any indication.

When Sarah tugs him back into motion, he lets her pull him into her bedroom.

She hauls him down for a kiss, as soon as the door is shut and locked behind him. Her lips slide against his, much too wet, too sloppy. Richard responds, practiced in kissing, if nothing else. He tries to deepen it, knowing that it’s something that is expected of him. He tastes vodka and cranberries when he licks into her mouth.

She moans into the kiss. Without breaking apart, she steers him toward the bed. Stopping just before it, Richard feels her hips wiggle under his hands.

Sarah makes a satisfied noise and smirks against his lips. Richard pulls back to see her panties pooled around her ankles.

He blinks down at them, studying the sight as if it holds the key to a complicated puzzle. Sarah laughs--she’s always laughing, it makes her hazel eyes shimmer--and takes one of his hands in hers. She places his palm against her thigh, under the short hem of her dress. She guides him to her sex, where his fingers ghost over her wet heat.

Sarah hums, but quickly becomes bored with his timid exploration. “Put one inside me,” she instructs.

He finds her folds and dips his index finger between them. He sinks into her, first to his knuckle and then, at her encouragement, all the way inside.

He knows the mechanics of this, at least. He slides it in and out of her, wondering if it truly feels as good for her as her wanton moans indicate.

He adds another finger. She’s tight around his fingers and he scissors them experimentally, feeling her stretch to accommodate him.

He thinks, as she ruts against his hand, that he should be feeling something. But the concept of desire is beyond him. His cock is unfailingly soft inside his jeans, a reminder of his inadequacy. 

With a growl of frustration, he captures her mouth under his, kissing her hard and aggressive. He tries to force himself to feel some sense of urgency, tries to fake passion, reasoning that it has to come to him eventually. 

And yet, nothing does.

He continues to pump his fingers inside of her. Sarah’s cries are muffled, her hips bucking wildly, until she squeals against his lips. She freezes, then melts against his chest, relying on him to keep her from falling. 

Richard pulls his fingers out of her. He winces with disgust when he finds them sticky and wet.

Sarah takes his hand and guides his sex-soaked fingers to her mouth. She licks along the seam of them, tasting herself, before sucking them into her mouth.

It’s strange, having his fingers in her mouth. He can see the disappointment in her eyes when it doesn’t get the reaction that she’s clearly expecting. She recovers quickly, however. Stepping out of her underwear, she kicks them across the floor. Her hands find the button on his jeans.

She pops it open and unzips his jeans with practiced ease. She pushes them down over his hips. He moves to toe of his shoes and remove his jeans, but Sarah stops him, cupping her hand over his cock through his briefs. She pouts when she finds him not even half-hard under her touch.

“I--I’m sorry,” he says. His face is hot with shame. He wants nothing more than to pull his jeans back into place and stumble his way back to his dorm.

“Aw, you’re just nervous.” She sits back onto the bed, dragging him down with her to cover her body with his own. “You’re thinking too much. Let me see if I can’t put a stop to that.”

He doesn’t think it’s possible for him to stop thinking--nothing has ever worked before. Not even copious amounts of alcohol. He’s been chasing silence since the day his mother died.

And, perhaps, if he proves to himself that he can do it, that he can be intimate with a woman, he won’t feel so broken. He knows that the act is supposed to feel good. That, as a man, he should crave it, for reasons of procreation and otherwise. Perhaps Sarah is correct. Perhaps he is just nervous. As soon as he can stop overthinking things, perhaps he’ll find that he’s only been psyching himself out of the pleasures of sex, all because of a hasty realization at the age of fourteen.

Still, he hesitates, holding himself over Sarah’s body awkwardly, his knees trapped in the confines of his jeans.

Sarah’s pout returns full-force. “I thought you loved me. Don’t you want to be with me?”

He does love her, doesn’t he?

Should that make it any easier to be physical with her?

They’ve been dating for weeks--a record for Richard. Sarah is smart, incredibly so, double majoring in history and political science with plans to go into law to eventually become a Senator. She’s free-spirited and charismatic, always laughing, her smiles bright and easy. There’s a lightness in his chest whenever he thinks about her.

Is that not love?

“I do,” he says.

“Then why don’t you show me?” She reaches down to cup him again. She rubs him through his briefs. 

It feels...strange.

It’s not the first time he’s had an erection. He’s woken up, his cock tenting the front of his pajama bottoms. It’s a natural phenomenon for a healthy male. But he’s never felt the need to stroke himself to hardness, has never brought himself to completion.

It feels strange to have another person’s hand on him, even through the cotton of his underwear. Nothing like how he imagines it’s supposed to feel. From descriptions given by friends, conversations overheard in the locker room, or even depictions in the media, none of it could have prepared him for the sick feeling building in the pit of his stomach, instead of pleasure.

He takes a shuddering breath as Sarah’s hand moves away. Only to have her push the final barrier of his underwear down his hips. She takes him in her hand and all he can do is close his eyes and breathe through it.

“There we go,” Sarah says, breath tickling at his ear, once he’s fully hard, pre-come beading at the head of his cock. “Not thinking so hard now, are you?”

He’s trying desperately to enjoy her touch. He wants so badly to be able to ignore the wrongness he feels at the contact. Whimpering, he buries his face in the space between her neck and shoulder. Sarah laughs, mistaking his distress for enthusiasm. 

She spreads her legs wider, her platform heels clicking together as she wraps her legs around his waist. She hikes her dress up to bunch around her stomach and guides his cock to her entrance. “Come on, baby. I need you inside me.”

He doesn’t want to be inside her. He doesn’t want _any_ of this. It was a mistake to even try. But Sarah tightens her legs around him, urging him on, and he thrusts the rest of the way into her.

He kisses her, more to distract himself than to express any affection he might have once held for her. Sarah’s hips buck up to meet each thrust. One of her hands slips between them, her fingers circling her clit.

Richard picks up the pace, reasoning that the faster Sarah climaxes, the faster this entire charade will be over. By the pitch and frequency of her cries, he can only hope that she’ll reach her orgasm soon. He focuses on breathing and the snap of his hips, until finally, _finally_ , Sarah screams her release.

He isn’t expecting her muscles to clench around him. He isn’t expecting his own orgasm to hit him with all the force of a speeding truck. It’s overwhelming. Like fireworks bursting just behind his eyes, painful and bright enough to blind him. He spends himself within her, collapsing on top of her with a wordless cry of his own.

Sarah pets his sweat-soaked hair. Out of everything they’ve done together, this is what feels the nicest. He clings to the comfort of her fingers on his scalp, until she pushes him off of her, complaining about the heaviness of his body crushing her into the mattress. Pulling out of her, Richard rolls to the side, his back to her.

He can’t bring himself to look at her. His clothes are still around his knees, his shirt wet with sweat and wrinkled. Richard hears her behind him, unbuckling her heels. She tosses them over the side of the bed, the sound of them crashing to the floor too loud in the sudden quiet. She kisses his temple, before wrestling her comforter up and over them both.

Sarah doesn’t take long to fall asleep. Her breathing evens out into soft, drunk snores. It’s only then that Richard finds himself able to move.

Quietly, he maneuvers out of Sarah’s bed. He’s still unsteady from the alcohol he’d consumed earlier. He nearly overbalances when he stands.

His face burning, he pulls his underwear and jeans back into place.

Sarah turns in her sleep. Richard freezes, but she settles back into slumber with a quiet sigh.

Richard runs all the way back to his dorm room. He strips, sets the shower spray as hot as he can physically stand it, and scrubs himself clean.

He doesn’t see Sarah again for nearly two months. There are tears streaming down her face.

She’s pregnant.

**III.**

Coralee is something of a miracle. If he believed in such things.

She comes into his life at a time when he feels like everything is falling apart. He’s working on his doctorate in psychology, drowning in lab work and his thesis, while he juggles the demands of being a single parent to a three year old.

He’s wary, at first, of love and all that comes with it. After Sarah, he’s been much too busy to try and reach out to another person. But Coralee reaches out to him and he finds himself falling for her more and more each day.

Best of all, she hasn’t pushed him for sex. Kissing her doesn’t bother him as much as kissing other women has in the past. But when he pulls away, before he can raise any expectation of more in her, she lets him go. She doesn’t touch him inappropriately when he holds her. And sleeping together is just that--sleeping.

She teases him about it, however, one night after finally putting Charlie to bed.

“You’re not saving yourself for marriage, are you?”

Richard feels his heart skip a beat. He hopes she can’t feel it, her back pressed to his chest, his arms around her waist as they lay in his bed.

He’s kept his secret for well over a decade. And after one particularly disastrous attempt at being intimate with a partner, he’s certain it isn’t something he wishes to try again. 

But he loves Coralee. He can’t imagine what his life would be like without her. If she leaves him, because he cannot do his part to satisfy her, he--

“Richard,” Coralee says, interrupting his thoughts. “Relax. It’s getting hard to breathe.” 

“Oh,” he says. He loosens his grip on her. He hadn’t realized he was holding her so tightly. “Sorry.”

Coralee shifts in the circle of his arms to face him. She reaches a hand up to cup his cheek. “If you want to wait, that’s fine.”

He has to tell her.

He just doesn’t know how.

Richard closes his eyes. He nuzzles his face into the palm of her hand before he reaches up to take it in one of his own. “I--”

Coralee waits for him to organize his thoughts into something coherent. He’s never been more grateful to a person in his life.

“I don’t enjoy sex,” he says.

Coralee laughs. Richard feels his insides freeze over.

After a moment of painful silence, Coralee says, her tone dropping into disbelief. “You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t want it. At all?”

“No.”

Coralee squeezes his hand. “Hey. Look at me.”

Richard swallows and opens his eyes. Coralee is smiling, soft and gentle. No traces of disappointment or ridicule on her face. 

“It’s okay.”

He must not have heard her correctly. “What?”

“It’s okay. We don’t have to.”

“We don’t?”

“No, of course not.” 

Richard pulls her close, burying his nose in her hair. “I love you,” he whispers. “More than life.”

“I love you, too,” she says, winding her arms around him to return his embrace.

They stay like that, locked in each other's arms, for a long while. Coralee is the one to break the silence, saying, “I do have some questions.”

Richard groans. Coralee, would, of course, have questions. And he owes her the answers to them, at the very least.

“Charlie?” she asks.

He knows exactly what she means. His face burns. “It was just the once. We were intoxicated and--I thought I loved her. I thought it would help.”

“But it didn’t?”

Richard shakes his head, her hair tickling at his nose. “I hated it. Every second.”

“That’s--” Coralee struggles to find a suitable word.

“Please,” he says, stopping her. “I know that I’m not--I’m not normal.”

Coralee pulls back, but only far enough to look up at him. “I was going to say ‘unfortunate.’ There’s nothing wrong with you, Richard. I love you, and I don’t need you to make love to me to prove that you love me.”

“You’re certain? After--” After her...indiscretion, back when they had first started dating, the thought of her with another man has made him sick with anxiety. The thought that he has driven her there, after not being able to pay her the attention she was clearly craving, has acid eating away at his stomach. 

“Very,” she says. “And you have to let that go. It was before I knew I loved you. It won’t happen again.”

He kisses her, long and lingering. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You do,” she says. There’s a strange lilt to her voice that gives him pause, but he’s too grateful to have this beautiful, intelligent woman in his arms, that she isn’t running away from him after he’s confessed to being broken, that he ignores it. “I promise. You do.”

It’s not long after that that Richard asks her to marry him.

He’s happy, for the first time that he can remember. Finally, he’s found a woman who understands him, who doesn’t need him to perform physical acts to satisfy her. He wonders, sometimes, whether he should be worried that he’s trapped her in a sexless marriage. But her smiles are enough to reassure him. Her kisses are still enough to convey her love for him.

Until Coralee begins to pull away.

Her smiles turn forced.

Her kisses feel cold against his lips.

He spends a lot of time working, it’s true. He’s encouraged her to continue her schooling, as well. He thinks, at first, that the time apart is what is contributing to her distance. He tries to find ways to connect with her, little things like carving out time to eat together and sending her flowers, but, if anything, the distance becomes worse.

“Coralee,” he says, once the divide begins to feel impossible to bridge. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

She doesn’t pretend to misunderstand him. She doesn’t lie to protect his feelings. She looks straight into his eyes, her hands clenched into fists on her lap, and says, “I want a baby.”

His whole world turns upside down.

His eyes wide, he takes a step back, almost as if she’s slapped him.

“I love Charlie, you know I do. But I want a baby of my own, Richard.”

It becomes a long-standing argument between them. They try, for their daughter’s sake, to keep the fighting away from Charlie. Still, the tension between them is impossible for Charlie to ignore. Richard notices that she spends more time in her room or out with her friends, anywhere but home when both her parents are present. As a result, he spends more time working, following, he realizes with bitter resentment, the same workaholic tendencies he had so abhorred in his own father.

He comes home one night, much earlier than he had told Coralee he’d be returning, to find her car gone from the driveway. He looks from room to room, finding no one until he knocks on Charlie’s door.

“Where’s your mother?” he asks.

Charlie shrugs. “Out.”

“She didn’t say where she was going?”

Rolling her eyes, Charlie says, “No, Dad. Sometimes she just goes out, okay? What, she’s not allowed to have a social life?”

Her teenaged angst is nothing new, but sometimes he feels as if it’s directed at him, specifically. He closes the door and lets her be.

He tries to lose himself in work as he waits, his stomach turning in anxious knots, for Coralee to return. His mind is going into overdrive, jumping to every conclusion it can find, but there is one that it eventually settles on. 

Coralee is having an affair.

He wants to be angry. He wants to be able to throw accusations at her as soon as she opens the door.

But he knows that this is his fault, that he might as well have pushed her into another man’s arms. He can’t satisfy her. He can’t give her what she wants.

When she comes into the house, Richard looks up from the blank white page of the notebook on his lap. He places it on the coffee table and rises to greet her.

There’s a look of confusion on her face when he pulls her into his arms, but she goes willingly. She slips her arms around his waist. “You’re home early,” she says.

“I love you,” he says, in return. 

Coralee steps out of his embrace. Her eyes are sad, yet determined. “If you loved me, you would help me to conceive a child. But you can’t even get over yourself enough to have sex with your own wife.”

Richard feels his heart drop straight out of his chest. If he looks down, he’s convinced he’ll see it lying, battered and bruised, on the tile at his feet. 

“Coralee,” he says, surprising himself by the hoarseness of his own voice. He swallows. “Please. There are other options. Adoption--”

“I don’t want to adopt, Richard! I want _us_ to make a baby. Don’t you want us to have a family?”

“We _have_ a family. We have Charlie.”

“So, what? I have to get you drunk, like Sarah did? You gave _her_ a baby that she didn’t even _want_ and you can’t give me one? It’s the only thing I’ve _ever_ asked you for, Richard.”

Their argument is interrupted by a stifled sob. Richard and Coralee look up just in time to see Charlie turn and run back to her room.

Richard moves to run after her, but Coralee stops him with a hand on his chest. “She doesn’t want you.”

“I’m her father.”

“And you’ve done an excellent of showing it lately, haven’t you?”

Richard watches her climb the stairs until she’s no longer within sight. Then he takes his keys and his wallet and leaves the house.

He drives around, with no real destination in mind, until the early hours of the morning. His eyes are burning, bloodshot when he looks in the rearview mirror. When he finally returns home, he doesn’t bother going to the room that he and Coralee share. He collapses onto the bed in the guest room and wills himself to fall asleep.

A year later, their marriage still on rocky ground, he and Coralee are in the car, driving down the highway to Big Sur. 

Coralee disappears.

Within the next month, Richard loses not only his wife, but his daughter, his in-laws, and even his sister.

After that, Richard gives up on love, familial or otherwise.

He’s better off alone.

Or, that’s what he tells himself. Until Alex Reagan pushes her way into his life, nearly twenty years later.

**IV.**

Richard Strand does everything in his power to keep his regard for Alex Reagan a secret.

It’s a secret that he’s fully prepared to take to his grave. 

After a lifetime of failed relationships, he knows better than to try again. Especially with a beautiful, young reporter with a knack for getting herself into trouble.

He pushes her away, time and again. But every time he pushes, Alex pushes back. Until Strand finds himself literally pushed against a wall, Alex’s arm around the back of his neck, dragging him down for a demanding kiss.

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to respond. When he does, it’s to lick his way into her mouth. He’s rusty, after almost two decades of being alone, but Alex seems happy enough to take the lead. She slides her tongue along his, tasting him. She nibbles at his bottom lip and laughs, delighted, when he gasps into her mouth.

She pulls away from him, a pretty flush spread across her cheeks when she smiles up at him.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

Her flush deepens and she tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “You’re just saying that.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you.” He smiles ruefully. “Not about this, Alex.”

She draws him down for another kiss. Strand tangles his fingers in her hair, marveling at the feel of her lips against his. She’s warm and sweet and nothing like Sarah or Coralee. With Sarah, it had been something expected of him. It hadn’t made him feel uneasy, not the way kissing had made him feel in his youth, when it was all he could do to fit in with his peers. With Coralee, it had been enjoyable, perhaps only because he was truly in love with her. With Alex, he finds her playful, yet passionate, assertive, without being forceful.

Still, he hesitates when Alex tugs him toward the hotel bed.

He has a flash of memory, a blurry recollection from half a lifetime ago. He doesn’t want to repeat that disastrous night, but he also remembers Coralee--that his disinterest in sex was okay until it wasn’t. Nevermind that she had confessed that their entire marriage had been built on a lie. Nevermind that the only reason she had begun to pressure into having sex with her was that the Cult of Tiamat had ordered her to, in order to have his child, to gain access to whatever special genetics they believe him to have. He doesn’t want to lose Alex, now that he knows that she must feel _something_ for him.

To keep her, he’ll do his best to please her.

Even if he feels ill, even at the mere thought.

Alex cocks her head to the side in that inquisitive way of hers. “Strand?”

Strand shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”

When she doesn’t move, her eyes betraying her doubt, Strand takes the initiative.

He picks her up, making her yelp in surprise. She laughs and wraps her legs around him as he walks her the rest of the way to the bed. Depositing her gently onto the mattress, careful not to crush her, he captures her lips in a kiss.

From here, Strand has no idea what to do. They kiss for a long time, slow and languid, as if Strand’s heart isn’t beating like a drum against his rib cage.

Alex, once again, takes control of the situation. She breaks the kiss to nibble along the edge of his jaw. Her breath tickles at his skin as she leaves a trail of kisses down the column of his throat.

He shudders. This one simple act threatens to overwhelm him. He closes his eyes against his reflexive disgust and wills himself to do something with his hands. He knows he needs to participate, to touch her in return, but he feels frozen in place.

Clothing. They’re supposed to remove their clothing. He has a feeling that Alex won’t settle for something quick, with only essentials moved out of the way.

If he’s honest with himself, if he’s going to go through with the act, he wants to be reminded of his first time as little as possible. He wants to do it right. Or, as right as he can manage, with very little experience.

He sits back, away from Alex’s touch, and begins to unbutton his shirt. Alex watches him, playfully laying back with her hands folded behind her head.

Half-way through the buttons, Strand’s hands start to shake. He fumbles with the second to last button, his fingers refusing to cooperate. He looks up at Alex, sees her smile shift into something very like a frown, and looks back down, his face flushed hot.

The bed squeaks as Alex sits up. She brushes his hands out of the way, kissing his cheek as she undoes the last two buttons. She takes hold of one hand and then the other, unbuttoning the cuffs at his wrists. “I’m nervous, too,” she says, pushing his shirt off of his shoulders.

Strand meets her eyes, noting the honesty he sees there. He nods. Even if he wanted to return her honesty with truths of his own--that he’s never truly done this before, that he isn’t nervous, he’s terrified, that he’s only doing this is order to keep her in his life, not because he wants to--he couldn’t. His throat feels closed up and useless. The words are stuck beyond his reach.

He kisses her in lieu of words. Once, twice, three times, before he can gather the strength to pull his undershirt over his head.

Alex’s top joins his on the floor. She pops the button on her jeans and shimmies out of them, the tight denim clinging to her like a second skin.

Strand still needs to unlace his shoes before he can continue undressing. He hesitates, wondering whether he’s expected to marvel at her lingerie-clad body or focus on removing his clothes.

Cursing himself for a coward, he bends forward to deal with his shoes and socks. He stands, still not making eye contact, to rid himself of his slacks, shucking himself out of them without any sort of grace or ceremony.

He has never once thought that he would be standing in front of Alex Reaan, clad only in his boxer briefs. He wonders if she finds him attractive. He knows that he’s much too thin, after countless skipped meals. He’s not muscular, by any means. She’d called him handsome, at the start of her podcast, but he’s never known whether it was a statement she really meant.

He finds her attractive, by conventional standards. But it isn’t her looks that he fell in love with. Her almond-shaped brown eyes are pretty, but they are at their most beautiful when they sparkle with the challenge of an investigation. Her lips are full and soft, but he loves them best when she smiles. Her laugh makes his heart skip a beat, but not in a bad way. He’s never told so many bad jokes in his life, all in an effort to coax her into laughing more--even if it’s at his own expense.

Alex crawls forward, her breasts nearly spilling out of her bra. She takes both of his hands in hers and pulls him back onto the bed. She lies back, guiding him to cover her body with his. As if she understands his inexperience--how could she?--Alex places his hands on each of her breasts.

Strand almost laughs. In all of his adult life, he’s never touched a woman’s breasts. They are soft, yielding under his touch. He ducks his head down to kiss the swell of one while his thumb traces over the nipple of the other, covered only by flimsy lace.

Alex makes a pleased sound. She arches her back, lifting herself off of the mattress long enough for her to reach behind her and unclasp her bra. Strand helps her to remove it, dropping it over the side of the bed.

He cups her naked breasts, watching Alex’s expression as he learns how she likes to be touched. Her breath hitches when he runs his nails lightly over her nipples. She gasps outright when he rolls the pert buds between his fingers. She moans in pleasure when he takes one into his mouth.

He laps at it with his tongue, before sucking gently. Alex’s hand grips his bicep, squeezing the muscle in her pleasure. Her free hand slips between their bodies, her fingers trailing down his chest, over his stomach, down to the elastic of his underwear. She dips her hand inside the waistband and Strand has to close his eyes. His cock is soft in her hand.

Alex makes a sound of surprise. She tries to meet his eyes, but Strand presses his forehead to her collarbone. “I’m sorry,” he whispers into her skin.

“Don’t be.” Alex brushes her hand through his hair. “Take your time.”

He huffs a self-depreciating laugh. 

“I mean it,” she continues. She presses a kiss to his hair. “We don’t have anywhere to be.”

His eyes burn with the realization that she does mean it. That she would wait for him to be ready in his own time, without pushing or making him feel ashamed for his dysfunction. He nearly breaks down because he’ll never be ready. He’s broken, beyond repair.

“Just--touch me.” His voice is tight. He wants to run. He wants to bolt back to his hotel room. But if he leaves now, he’s certain that he’ll lose her.

“Please,” he continues, when her hand doesn’t move.

Her small hand circles his cock. She strokes him, slow and steady, until he stirs under her careful ministrations. Strand returns his attention to her breasts, as if the last few minutes have never happened.

His body responds to her, his hips bucking involuntarily when she twists her hand on the upstroke, her movements slicked with his pre-come. He’s grateful, at least, for that much. It’s only in his head that he’s insufficient. And, if it only lives in his head, he should be able to overcome it.

For Alex’s sake.

Strand takes a shuddering breath. He hooks his fingers into her underwear--more string than actual fabric, the effect completely wasted on him--and drags them down her legs. Without giving himself time to think, he removes his own underwear and adds them to the pile beside the bed.

He has vague memories of what he’s supposed to do, now that they’re both naked. He palms the intimate place between her legs. Her curls are already damp with her arousal. He slips his index finger between her folds, pushing into her.

Alex gasps.

He thrusts his finger in and out of her, finding a rhythm that leaves Alex breathless. He pushes another finger inside her and Alex gives a wordless cry.

Strand kisses her, swallowing her moans. His eyes are squeezed shut. He doesn’t realize that the world has narrowed down to Alex’s lips until he notices that they’ve stopped moving against his.

Alex pushes at his chest. “Richard, stop, stop.”

Strand immediately pulls his fingers out of her. He holds himself above her, eyes searching her face for any clues as to what he’s done wrong. “Did I hurt you?”

“No. No, you didn’t hurt me.”

“Then--I don’t understand. Did I do something wrong?”

Alex shakes her head. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Except, well, you’re not enjoying this, are you?”

Strand’s blood turns to ice. Was he that obvious? “Of course I am. Why--How could you ask--?”

“Because you were a thousand miles away, just now. You looked like you were in _pain_.”

Strand heaves himself off of her. He wants to curl up on his side, to ignore her questions and her concern, but he knows she won’t let him hide. He lies on his back and settles for throwing his arm over his eyes. “I wasn’t in any pain.”

“No?”

“No.”

The bed shifts. He doesn’t have to see her to know that she’s turned on her side to face him.

He owes her an explanation.

He doesn’t know if he has the strength to tell her. Not after what happened with Coralee.

“Richard?”

“It’s not you. You have to believe that.” 

Alex laughs. It sounds hurt. “‘It’s not you, it’s me?’” 

“ _Yes_.”

Alex is silent for a moment. “So, tell me what’s wrong.”

“Sex,” he sighs, “with _anyone_ , disgusts me.”

“What?”

“I can’t--I’ve never enjoy sex. It feels,“ he struggles to find the words, “ _wrong_. Overwhelming.”

Alex touches the arm over his face, requesting without words for him to look at her. He moves the arm, but he doesn’t meet her eyes until she cups his cheek. “Hey, I don’t mind if you’re asexual--”

“ _What_?”

Alex frowns. “I don’t mind that you’re asexual. I just wish that you would have told--”

Strand interrupts her. “Human beings aren’t asexual, Alex. They don’t reproduce--”

Alex surprises him into silence by placing a finger over his lips. “That’s not what it means in this context. Asexuality in humans is when a person has little to no interest in sex.”

“I--what?”

Alex smiles. He holds onto the sight of it while the rest of his world tilts on its axis.

“You really didn’t know?” She pushes his hair back off of his forehead. 

“No, I--” He’d thought there was something wrong with him. He’d thought he was broken. He’d thought he was alone.

“How do you know about this?” he asks. “Are you--?”

She shakes her head. “I produced a story on it a few years back. If anything, I’d consider myself demisexual.”

“What’s that?”

“Can I touch you?”

The question comes out of nowhere. He’s already reeling from the revelation that there is a name for what he is. All he can do is stare at her in response.

“Nowhere inappropriate, I promise.”

He nods, but can still feel himself tense in apprehension. They’re still lying naked together, warm and very close.

Alex touches his shoulder, her arm lying across his chest in a faux embrace. The rest of her body remains several inches away. “So, there is a spectrum of asexuality. Some people, like you, are considered sex-repulsed. People who are demi-sexual, or grey-sexual, are only interested in sex with...someone they care about.”

It takes him a long moment to process this. And even longer to realize what Alex has just admitted. “You...care about me?”

Alex’s face turns a bright pink. She doesn’t back down, however. She squeezes his shoulder. “I do.” She laughs. “I thought I was being pretty obvious about it.”

Strand breathes a laugh of his own. “I never thought it was possible. For you to have feelings for me.” He takes a deep breath. He’s gone this far, already. “I care about you, too. I wanted to please you. I couldn’t bare the thought of turning you away. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Alex smiles, wide and bright. “Can I kiss you?”

The answer to that, at least, is simple. “Always.”

She leans over him and the press of her lips is somehow sweeter than before.

“If you do care about me,” she begins, once she breaks the kiss. She looks him in the eyes. Strand braces himself--nothing good has ever followed those words. “You won’t do anything that makes you uncomfortable. And you’ll _tell me_ when I’ve crossed that line.”

He can barely believe what he’s hearing. “But--”

“But nothing. I want to be with you, but I’ll feel gross if you’re forcing yourself to do something you don’t want to do, just because you think I want you to.”

He turns to face her, ever-conscious of his nakedness. Hesitantly, he puts his arm around her waist and pulls her closer. He rests his forehead against hers. “Thank you. That means everything to me. But, I’ve heard this all before. It’s always fine, at first. You’ll change your mind when you realize that I can’t satisfy you. Ever.”

She tenses in his arms as he speaks. She doesn’t break out of his hold and, for that, he’s grateful. “I’m sorry. I really am. But I’m not any of those other women. You can satisfy me just by being yourself. And if I want an orgasm, well, I’ve been taking care of myself for years. I think I’ll be okay in that respect.”

Strand blushes furiously. “It won’t be the same. To be in a committed relationship and have to rely on yourself for pleasure.”

Alex doesn’t even blink at his assumption of a committed relationship. “Well, I have to admit that it would be better with you, but...I have an idea, if you’re open to it.”

Panic spikes through him. “Alex, I don’t--”

Alex caresses the side of his face, shushing him. She kisses him, a chaste press of her lips only, but it’s enough to keep him from running. “You said kissing is okay, right?”

“I don’t mind it, when it’s with you.”

“And, if I promise to keep my hands from wandering anywhere you don’t like, would you mind if I--” Alex bites her bottom lip. She ducks her head, hiding her face. “If I touch myself?”

Strand swallows. He palms the back of her head, tangling his fingers in her hair. “Would that be enough for you?”

“Absolutely. But only if you’re okay with it.”

It’s a compromise. The risk still exists that Alex will get bored of him, but it’s something. “I suppose that we could try it, if that’s what you want. Are you--Do you still--”

Strand clears his throat, unable to voice the rest of his question. Alex laughs.

“To be honest,” she says, “I’d rather just lay here with you.” She nuzzles her face against his chest.

He opens his mouth, but can’t think of anything to say. He closes it and, instead, holds her closer to him.

For the first time, Strand doesn’t feel like there is something wrong with him.

Not with Alex, patient and understanding Alex, in his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm posting this at 03:22. I'm so tired. Any mistakes that I haven't caught can be blamed on the fact that I can barely see straight, lol.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading. Your kudos and comments are deeply cherished.


End file.
